Facade
by Strikey-Chan
Summary: "What's a girl like you doing in here?" Beilschmidt asked. "I'm not a girl," he said. "Well, you're certainly small, aren't you?" "Not a girl." he said again. Two times Kiku loved, three times he wept. Prupan.
1. Chapter 1

**I remember reading a fanfiction a long time ago that inspired me to do this.**

**I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers, nor do I own the idea of this fanfic. I merely adapted it to another fandom.**

**We need some more Prupan in the world. Seriously.**

* * *

The sky was overcast.

Beilschmidt squinted at the sky and furrows his eyebrows at the heaviness of his stomach. Hunger, when sated, renders taste anew, but too much or too little leaves a sinking feeling in his digestive system.

Whatever. He'll survive for a few days.

"What a waste. I left some crumbs," Beilschmidt said, touching his mouth. When he pulled his fingers away, it left a tangy taste on his lips. The blood stain was also present on the fringes of his robe, dark against the black of his kimono. He grunted.

"I guess I'll have to wash this out now," he said, slightly irritated. He brushed the dirt off his posterior and striped off his clothing. Inside his kimono rested a small knife. The blade shone, still glistening even after the hunt.

The river was certainly quiet at night. Beilschmidt left his clothing on the riverbank. It could be washed out later, after he finished soaking himself. It had been a while since he ventured into the human world.

The grass rustled, near the edge of the river, by the wooden post of the bridge. Beilschmidt blamed his preoccupation with fussing with the water for not sensing the presence, and he raised apprehensive eyes at the intruder. His nails glinted, predatory. He narrowed his eyes.

Maybe he could kill this one for tomorrow's dinner, perhaps?

"Come out, mortal," Beilschmidt spat, "I won't kill you just for peeping."

The shadow was still, but it moved closer. A little too brave, a little too stupid. It stepped forward, one, two, three, and illuminated by the moon, the human seemed unearthly, like a ghost.

Beilschmidt felt his mouth twist into a smirk.

"What's a girl like you doing in here?" Beilschmidt asked. He moved through the water to approach the human, the appearance of grace frolicking around him. "Did they not teach you not to wander too far from home?"

The stranger kept hands to the side loosely. No appearance of fear. Just a facade. Yet he reeks of nervousness. "I'm not a girl," he said, apropos of nothing. Beilschmidt brought a hand to his mouth, amused. Looking closer, he did show his boyish features – his frame was just so delicate and feminine, like a girl's.

"Well, you're certainly small, aren't you?" Beilschmidt's last human meal was an annoying thing, quiet one moment, and crazy the next. This – _boy_, seemed to have much more sense in his life. Beilschmidt liked that.

Beilschmidt stepped onto the riverbank. He smoothed the water down his ears, and licked the water from his fingers. They boy stared at his face, seemingly unmindful of his nudity. As if it did not even register past the brightness of Beilschmidt's eyes, the handsome smirk of his face.

"Not a girl," the stranger said again, quite heatedly.

"Not a girl, then," Beilschmidt concedes, but only to humor him. "What is your name, boy?"

The boy bites his lip. "Kiku Honda."

"Kiku Honda," Beilschmidt tests it out on his tongue. "May I call you by your first name? Kiku?"

He frowned and his eyes glinted. "I would prefer if you refered to me as Honda."

Beilschmidt shrugged, stretching his arms above his head. "Honda then," he said. He leaned forward to inspect Honda's face. "What are you doing here, little boy?"

Honda fumbled and almost tripped on his feet, but Beilschmidt took hold of the boy's body and pulled him closer. He held up Honda's jaw to his face.

"I'm looking for someone," he blurted out. He does not blush, but to Beilschmidt's satisfaction, the top of his ears turned red. "My companion – he's gone missing."

"I'm sure he must miss you very much," Beilschmidt said, looking down at Honda with half-lidded eyes. Was that a plea of help? Or was he just being naïve?

"Have you seen him?" Honda asked, a little lost, and desperate.

"I'm afraid not," Beilschmidt murmured. The way Honda pleaded – it excited him.

"Oh," Honda said, a little disappointed. He wrestled his chin out of Beilschmidt's hold. "In that case, I must be leaving now -"

"I can always take you to him," Beilschmidt said. He didn't want this Honda boy to escape. Not finished playing with him – no, not yet. "For a price."

Honda's eyes wavered. He loosened his grip, submissive and pliant. Beilschmidt smiled. Easy.

"No tricks," said Honda, after a moment.

"No tricks," agreed Beilschmidt. It was lie, yet it wasn't.

Mark it. A boy had forfeited his life.

* * *

"Describe your companion to me," Beilschmidt asked.

"Blonde hair, green eyes. His eyebrows are quite thick, but he has a handsome face."

Beilschmidt raised a brow.

Honda described his friend to Beilschmidt, and he went through insolent motions to search for the presence of a human in the forest. The familiarity of it's appearance stuck to his mind for hours, and yet he forgot where he once remembered. Maybe once, he had strayed too far as a child, or as a demon's recent meal. Rare, perhaps, but Beilschmidt could not recall most humans in his never ending life, their souls too dull to strike a cord.

Not even the past lovers were more than empty pleasures, in his bed.

"I can't find them," Beilschmidt said, a week later. Honda stopped, in the hallway of his home. He stared at Beilschmidt's face, who was already splayed out across the futon. "Nothing."

"No news, then," Honda muttered, his face monotone.

"I'm sorry," Beilschmidt couldn't believe he was apologizing to a mortal. "but I looked everywhere, and you have no idea how much pain it is to look for humans in a forest as thick and dense as that."

Honda sat down, leaning against the walls. He covered his face and shook. When his shoulders began to shake, Beilschmidt scolded himself for his lack of gentleness.

"I'm sorry," Beilschmidt said, even if he wasn't. He hovered over Honda's hunched form, and his fingers fuss at his sleeves. "Forgive me; I didn't mean to sound so rude. You just looked so lonely and I didn't want to give you false hope, and..."

Honda started to cry, louder, now, as if something in him was breaking. Beilschmidt fell to his knees and cupped Honda's cheeks, his fingers brushing away his tears.

"You could always marry me, y'know," Beilschmidt said. His voice was thick, thick with fretting. It was only a split moment later that he realized he meant every word he was saying. "You wouldn't have to be lonely. I don't mind. I could be human, for you. Female too, if you want."

Honda made a strange sound, in his throat, a cross between laughter and a cry. He shook his head, though he smiled.

"What is it?" Beilschmidt asked. "Did I say the wrong thing again?"

"It's just," Honda laughs, "I don't even know your name."

"Oh," Beilschmidt said in relief, and bent to whisper his name into Honda's mouth.

* * *

The boy on the bed is nothing like the boy from the river bank. The ethereal paleness of his skin is replaced by streaks of red. Blushes bloom under Beilschmidt's mouth, their tongues exploring each other in the caves of their mouths. Did he do this with his companion too? Did he scream his name like he knew nothing else?

"Gilbert," Honda panted, as Beilschmidt hiked up his knee to rest on Beilschmidt's shoulder. "Please."

This was payment, in a sense. Beilschmidt lost himself in Honda's unfamiliar heat, the sharp pang of wanting in his belly. It felt different to be inside of him, when his feet remained cold against the slope of Beilschmidt's back. It was hard to take in the intensity of Honda's full-body blush. Hearing, to register the gratifying aborted attempts at his name. His touch, for the goose bumps across Honda's shivering arms. Smell, taste, to ingest the salty aftertaste of Honda's cum, the scent of sex in the aftermath.

Not dull. Anything but dull.

Honda murmurs something Beilschmidt can't hear, but he pays it no heed. He stroked his hair, the nape of his neck. Beilschmidt wanted to replace his fingers with his mouth, to nip at Honda's skin like a scorpion. He wanted to insert those fingers inside Honda, once more, wanted to hear him moan.

"There's a saying about that forest," Beilschmidt said softly. "If you enter it, you never come back. No one ever does."

"That's not true," Honda muttered, into Beilschmidt's chest. Beilschmidt shivered – Honda's breath was cold to the touch.

"You're still waiting for him?" Beilschmidt questioned sharply.

Honda averted his eyes from Beilschmidt. Beilschmidt felt a tinge of regret of asking too much.

He takes a deep breath. He felt his head spin, just a little. "Mortals that go too deep into the forest end up eaten by all sorts of things, if they aren't careful. You shouldn't wait for something that will never arrive."

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Eaten a human before."

Beilschmidt stiffened. "Yeah, I have."

Honda looked up at him with large, doe eyes. "Would you eat me if I asked you to?"

The albino demon sent him a stare. "There's a fine line between hunger and affection, Honda."

"Would you?"

His answer was immediate. "No," Beilschmidt rose to cradle Honda in his arms. He sinks his face into Honda's neck and shoulder. "Never."

* * *

A messenger arrived on the doorstep with a letter in its mouth. Beilschmidt stares at it for a few minutes. "A bull?" he asked. "Has Antonio sent you?"

The bull grunted and stared back with a menacing gaze.

Beilschmidt narrowed his eyes and took the letter. He watched as the bull disappeared into the distance.

He unfolded the letter.

It was nothing new. For all the generations Beilschmidt had lived, Antonio had always taken a liking to invite Beilschmidt to come to his house and talk pointless chatter over a cup of tea. Beilschmidt could care less. He tapped the letter against his mouth, considering.

"I thought I heard something," Honda said, emerging. Beilschmidt was slightly surprised, but he did not jump, no matter how surprised he was. Honda could be quiet – far too quiet at times. He kissed Honda on the cheek. Never quiet when it mattered, though.

"I'm going out for a bit," Beilschmidt smiled, patting his head.

"Will you come back?" Honda asked. He sounded almost... Fond. Beilschmidt felt something tight in his stomach.

"Soon," Beilschmidt said, letting their foreheads touch. What he would do to spend a little more time with him.

It was always soon.

* * *

Antonio greeted him with a glass cup to his head when he popped into the room without much warning.

"Ow," Beilschmidt laments. "I thought you told me to come here."

"There's a door for visitors." the brunette chuckled.

"You've been living with your human far too long," Beilschmidt muttered. A demon shacking up with an annoying fruit seller. Peculiar indeed.

"Lovi, do you mind if you bring out the tea?" Antonio asked, turning his head.

The answer was the same as always - "I'm on it, bastard."

"Does it even have a point?" Beilschmidt said, later, after Vargas brought out tea and placated Antonio with a fresh confection. "Because if you had wanted a bit more variety in your love life, you could have just said so. I'd never turn you down if you offered -"

Vargas choked. Antonio pat his back, looking amused. After making sure his partner was okay, his face turned serious as he looked at Beilschmidt. "A devil is causing a ruckus again," he said. "Did you have something to do with this, Gil?"

Devils were always causing trouble. Beilschmidt sighed. Perhaps a devil ate Honda's friend. Honda would probably cry if he knew.

"No," Beilschmidt said. "I haven't come across any devils recently, I think."

Antonio growled. "You think?"

Vargas coughed politely. His partner calmed down.

"Look, I know you're some kind of amazing superhuman or whatever," Beilschmidt muttered, "But making Antonio cranky is ridiculous."

"It's just a bad day," Vargas says mildly. "Even humans have their secrets."

"Flaws, you mean?"

"Don't be such a dick."

Beilschmidt finished drinking his tea. "If there isn't anything else, then," he said, setting his cup down, ''I'll be taking my leave. Someone's waiting for me."

He rose from his seat. Vargas suddenly smiled at him, an unnerving smile. That human knows too much.

"Don't do anything stupid," Antonio warned.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful." Stupid? Of course not. Reckless? Maybe.

Vargas leaned against a wall, smirking. "Good luck with your new plaything, by the way."

It was Vargas who saw him to the doorway. The Italian human handed him a small slip of paper, and Beilschmidt unfolded it. He gazed at it for a moment, red eyes narrowing. He passed it back to Vargas, frowning.

"It'll make him happy, I'm sure," Vargas said. Not a demon, but still sly above all things. A human that saw too much would not last long in this earth. Beilschmidt almost felt sorry for Antonio, in all honesty.

"I don't like your personality," Beilschmidt admitted. Vargas laughed and shook his head.

Beilschmidt raised a hand, waving goodbye. He shut the door behind him, and traveled back to the only place he wanted to be in the most.

Though he's not sure if he's welcomed there, in the shadow of the missing companion.

* * *

Beilschmidt stared at his reflection, on the surface of the river. His ruby eyes, his silver hair. The white of his skin.

The image, on the paper, fit Honda's description perfectly. Blonde hair, pale skin, green eyes, and a arrogant mouth. He is familiar for some reason. Strange.

Honda deserved his peace, his brief moment of happiness. Peace is nothing to Beilschmidt, who has all the time in the world to get it. But humans, they are soft, and could break so easily. They value companionship far too much.

Beilschmidt felt as though he was going to lose part of himself.

Do it. Don't do it.

He'll love you. He'll hate you.

Beilschmidt shut his eyes. When he opened them again, his reflection was different. Changed. The mind trickery of it fooled even him. It could easily fool Honda.

He felt for his dagger, in his robe. He wanted to gouge out his eyes. He wanted to stab at this face – this face, which Honda seemed to love the most.

This house – this face's house – he reached it not long after. When Beilschmidt approached, he could see Honda sleeping on the floor.

He would kill to come home to this. What he would do, just for this.

"Kiku."

Honda's eyes flickered open, sleepy. He raised his head.

"Kiku," Beilschmidt said, in a strange man's voice. "I'm home."

Beilschmidt would be the one to make him happy.

* * *

**Chapter One - End**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter was planned to be out earlier. Much, much, earlier.**

**I fell sick and couldn't move from bed at all. How convenient. I slept early, woke up late, barfed at a regular basis, the usual thing you do when sick.**

**Sorry for the delay. I think it's quite short.**

* * *

For the whole period of dinner, Beilschmidt played the part. Kirkland was an uninteresting man, a single-minded human with little to boast for. Beilschmidt knew all of that from his face alone – the sharpness of his gaze, the furrows from his eyebrows. How dull. How boring.

Honda – no, Kiku, watched him like a lost soul, like an unsure pilgrim that did not know what to do with the miracle that just happened to him. If Beilschmidt were himself, he would be laughing with Kiku, with conversation, with love. However, because he was not himself, Beilschmidt stayed silent.

"Did you encounter any demons?" Kiku finally asked, as they ate their dinner.

"No," said Beilschmidt. Kiku smiled – though Beilschmidt wasn't sure if that was out of sadness.

When Beilschmidt turned off the lights, Kiku came to him without a word. He sunk into Beilschmidt's body like he couldn't bear to let go.

There was a brief sadness in the way they made love that night. Kiku was lost in grief, having no choice but to cling to the other. Not making any sound but crying into Beilschmidt's shoulder. Beilschmidt let Kiku wrap his arms around him all he wanted. When he sunk inside Kiku, Kiku tightened the grip on his back. The salty taste of this sex was so foreign to Beilschmidt.

It was brief, but it was sad.

Kiku's kimono wavered around his hips, pooling around his waist. Beilschmidt's fingers searched for the back of Kiku's legs, and Kiku gave him permission for him to guide his way through the motions, slow, deep but no pleasure – simply need. Kiku's hands pushed the opening of Beilschmidt's kimono to touch his bare skin with his ice cold hands.

"Arthur," said Kiku, softly, "I love you."

Beilschmidt carelessly released a whimper. His eyes flashed red in the darkness.

The spell broke, even if it was for a brief moment. However, it was enough for Kiku to stare at him. Beilschmidt opened his mouth. Kiku curled into himself, hurt, and pulled away.

"I'm sorry," said Beilschmidt. Kiku refused to move. "I – I didn't know. I only – I think, I saw him once."

Kiku crossed his legs, and breathed into the tatami mat. Beilschmidt faltered, and kept his hands at his sides.

Beilschmidt was lost. "I just wanted to make you happy."

The air was thick with accusation. The albino demon couldn't breathe. "Did you enjoy it, Gil – no, Beilschmidt," Kiku mouthed, his eyes angry, "watching me like this?"

"Don't call me that," Beilschmidt's distressed cry came out strangled as he gathered Kiku's fragile form into his arms. Out of all things, he didn't want to be treated like a stranger. Kiku hung, limply, against his chest. Beilschmidt touched his cheek to Kiku's forehead, his brow, his slope of his nose, just shy of his mouth, still bruised and raw from Arthur's – Beilschmidt's fervert kisses, the slick-side of his teeth, his tongue. "Please don't , Kiku -"

Kiku stiffened. "Don't call me that," he said, sharply. "Please don't."

Anger boiled in Beilschmidt's bones, already an all too familiar lover. Undeserving, damnable mortal, too insistent even in his absence, like that damned blood on his clothes, his hands. So fragile, yet so difficult to extinguish.

"I would be him, for you," said Beilschmidt. "If you'd just let me."

Kiku lowered his head. Water seeped through the fabric of Beilschmidt's clothing, in tiny drops. Beilschmidt raised Kiku's head to meet his eyes.

"Nothing will ever hurt you," said Beilschmidt, a hand on Kiku's cheek, his thumb across his mouth. This fascination was so strange. So detestable. His face changed, briefly, only a flash of paler skin and blonde hair, nothing like Beilschmidt's. Would Kiku take it? Would he take him?

Kiku's fingers trembled, as they covered the back of Beilschmidt's much larger hand. "Not even you?"

"No, not even," he promised. It wasn't a lie this time. "I swear it, I -"

Kiku kissed him. His lips were burning like the fire that burned Beilschmidt's heart.

Beilschmidt closed his eyes. He shut his mouth.

Breathe. Just breathe.

* * *

Kiku's eyes were sore and dry, protesting even as he stepped outside of Arthur's house. Gilbert was absent, for now, the only reminder of his presence a short string of his hair that turned silver under the sunlight, or what little there is left. Kiku took nothing with him but Gilbert's marks. The stench of his skin, his come. He hoped he reeked of demon, for spite, for all plausible scenarios of hell.

The river seemed to be still, as he crossed the bridge to the forest. Splinters of wood cracked under Kiku's weight, but Kiku didn't fear of falling. Two years ago, the river had sung him to sleep, swept him past the darkness of the lake, under the bridge and into the gentle hands of Arthur. Warm hands that had eased his mind and gripped at his heart.

_Keep moving forward_, he reminded himself. _No one would harm you if they couldn't notice you at all._ Not all who enter the forest in the veil of the night abandon hope of ever returning. Kiku slipped past the bamboo shoots, the stalks of overgrown weeds and brambles.

The forest was silent.

* * *

Kiku lived in his brother's home, deep in the forest. He called him brother even if he wasn't, even if they were borne from different wombs, different bloodlines. His brother was like a dragon that strangled Kiku's calm, his serenity. When Kiku looked at his brother, all he could think of was a broken dam, water spilling over cracks of rock and foliage in its temerity.

Their mother, the courtiers drew from the river; her hair spread wide across the water and her clothes were ripples of thin sheets. The whispers of the court claimed she was a demon, but Kiku knew, in his blood, what she was, and it was not a demon. She was pure devil. The day they caught her by the flimsy material of her robe, their mother died, bereft, lost. She withered away.

His father, was a slip of silence in the face of his human village. How on earth did his father and mother, a human and devil, fall in love, Kiku did not know.

There were three things Kiku learned from his brother – the first is how to lie.

Part of Gilbert's weakness was that he did not know deception in all of its forms, despite his species. Vulnerability, for one.

Inconspicuous as he was, Gilbert did not – could not imagine to – suspect Kiku. Demons were easy to trap, when dangled with things that attracted them. The thin veneer of a child, the supposed artlessness – they struck his interest, his brief fancy. They were never known for their fidelity, that much was certain.

This court though – Kiku's home; it was his only worth.

When Kiku bowed his head in subservience and presented his brother with a greeting, he was already playing a part. Better to allow his brother his few pleasures, his displays of power. Kiku had few fears. His brother was not the worst of them.

His sleeves, they pooled afloat his brother's knees, the fine cloth of his haori. The horns that adorned his brother's head seemed to twitch, as he yanked Kiku closer. He pressed his nose against Kiku's neck, where he felt a pulse.

"You reek of demon," said his brother, disgusted. He released Kiku and turned away. "Better than human, at least."

His uncivility was – forgivable. "Hello, brother," said Kiku, folding his arms on his lap. "How is your garden, today?"

Wang Yao pressed his fingers together, not quite fitting the gaps. In his throne, he was regal and formidable, like a God. A smaller man would tremble at his sight, but Yao doesn't tolerate fools and Kiku was not such a fool.

"You barely take interest in things like that," accused Yao. His skin rippled, showing scales for the slightest of moments. Red in the lamp light.

"I've asked for lesser things," said Kiku, calmly.

His brother clicked his tongue. "Always inefficient, are you not? And so dull, too."

Kiku did not rise to the bait. He couldn't. "It is always a clean, precise method," he said. "And plants have their uses."

Flicker, flare, flicker, flare. "Mm," hummed Yao. "that boy, he taught you healing, didn't he?"

"Arthur taught me many things," Kiku murmured. "As did you."

His brother's expression was knowing, and somewhat assessing, like he understood the inevitable conclusion. It seemed to please him, at least. Devils with wise eyes – they must look like Yao. Kiku disliked them, the kind of aversion that stemmed from grudging respect and some measure of intolerance at past offences, their means.

"Take whatever you like," said Yao, smiling. "But do try not to make a mess, alright?"

Kiku bowed. "I won't."

When he lifted his head, Yao looked amused. "I can always eat him, y'know," the devil offered, his golden eyes glinting in the darkness like Gilbert's would. A flame was snuffed out completely.

"I could do it," Yao continued, as if he was considering it seriously. As if he was the law. "I could cut him and present his head to you, even. Would you like that? A reprisal, of sorts. You would like that, would you not?"

"Please don't say things like that so mindlessly," Kiku muttered.

"My apologies," said Yao. "You were always so... Delicate."

Yao could be too rough sometimes, with the things he loved the most, expecting more than what he got and pushing and pushing until Kiku had no more to give. Kiku knew this all too well, in the wounds that Arthur used to trace with a gentle, shaking hand, bruises from too exacting teeth and fingers that gripped at his thighs to hold him down. No resistance, no force. But Yao was not needlessly cruel, just...

Just that he was not human, that was all. Some things were beyond him, and all things physical, all pains and pleasures – they meant nothing.

Kiku gritted his teeth, and rose. Bit down the unsettling feeling rising in his throat, clogging his lungs until he could not breathe. "Goodbye, brother."

He made it halfway to the entrance, before he felt it – that familiar, unsettling feeling of Yao's aura coiling around his body, slowly but surely crushing him. "Kiku," said Yao, and Kiku stopped. The devil cracked a smile, bitter and triumphant. "You will come home soon, won't you?"

Always, always a command.

Kiku turned on his heel, and said nothing.

* * *

There was no pestle in Arthur's place, nothing to crush a plant with short of using hands.

Along the river, he set himself to work. He pounded the herb, with a flat stone. The root was stained with soil, just like Kiku's fingers. He'd taken care not to uproot the stem with his bare skin. How unfortunate if he had rarely listened to Arthur's reprimands. A devil's herb, for a mortal man.

Poison, in small doses, was not enough to kill a demon. What he needed was not a fatal ingestion, nor a succession of ill-fated symptoms. Rather, sleep was the most merciful mercy he could spare, the most drawn-out, that gave false hopes.

Kiku knew all of this because the water spoke to him about secrets. Not all demons were amicable, the the same way humans could kill their own kind.

By the time he was done, his wrists ached and his arms shook, with the effort. It was a relief to throw the stone into the river.

The powder seeped through the spaces between his fingers, easily filtered. He scooped it up again and kept a fistful in his palm. It seemed to burn, into his skin, the touch of it causing blisters, stinging. It was alright. He was accustomed to pain, in all of its forms.

Tonight was a day for loss, and celebration.

Kiku's hands, though. They could not stop trembling.

* * *

He pretended to be asleep, on the wooden porch. Feigned ignorance and called Gilbert by Arthur's name, and something in Gilbert's eyes flickered. It dulled, into the green shade of Arthur's eyes. Only a pale imitation of his likeness, without any shine.

No words, either, that reminded Kiku of Arthur. Gilbert did not know how well Kiku knew beyond the map of Arthur's body, his posture, his air. Shallow mimicry, with no improvement, no basis for comparison. The realization made Kiku's fingers burn in fury, as if saying: This is not enough.

_I want you to be sorry. _Kiku's mind screamed. _Just say it. Say it, like you mean it. Like it's true._

But he didn't. He didn't know.

It would have been better too, if Gilbert kept up appearances; just the smallest crack, and it drove Kiku insane.

He rested his head against the mat and breathed deeply. One, two, three. He curled into himself and waited for Gilbert to speak. Waiting, always waiting.

Devils hated waiting.

* * *

It was raining outside.

The room was humid and suffocating. Gilbert looked at Kiku's knees, the steadily drying streak of come, translucent at the back of his hips. Just like extracting promises and producing guilt. Kiku kept his essence, his truths. The body was just so honest.

Kiku kissed him, to keep him silent, pacified. Gilbert's mouth was warm, and his tongue attentive, but Kiku's lip was coated with a fine line of paste, from Yao's gift. Gilbert gasped, as Kiku nipped at his lip. His eyes fluttered close, his mouth, his breathing. It would take longer before the effect took place. He had patience and more time than he knew what to do with. It was no matter at all.

He gathered in his clothes; he pulled on his yukata as he went to make tea. With mechanical movements, he went through the automatic motions. The shock was gone away from Gilbert's sight. Purposeful, efficient, deceitful – no, not simply that.

It was only a fair exchange.

Kiku felt almost sorry, to see Gilbert without his enthusiasm. But it was only momentary.

"Would you like some tea, Gilbert?" Kiku offered. He raised his cup; the hem of his sleeve slipped past his arm, pooled at his elbow. Gilbert followed the movement, and blinked.

"I could never refuse you," said Gilbert, sighing.

Arthur wouldn't have said that.

When Gilbert looked at Kiku, he looked at him like he could not see anything beyond the fine slope of his nose, the soft swell of his cheek. Gilbert's eyes were sharp. Arthur had eyes like those too, severe and indifferent at turns. Greedy, at times. Insatiable. Gilbert almost looked human, and it clawed at Kiku's heart.

Kiku guided the cup to his lips. 'Almost' was not enough.

"You came to me," said Gilbert, like he believed in it. His voice was soft but not weak. Never weak. "You came, and I loved you from the start."

Kiku's fingers stiffened against the cup. Do not tremble. Do not hesitate. Kiku made sure Gilbert drank it all.

It rained on. And on. And on.

**Chapter Two - End**


	3. Chapter 3

**If I were to work at a writing company I'd be kicked out within two weeks because of my incapability to keep up with deadlines and constant procrastination.**

**This is twenty five days late. I really have no excuse.**

**That being said! This is the final chapter, and it has been a pleasure staying up till four am writing these. I hope there were no traces that I constantly rushed to write dem paragraphs. I apologize for any amateur mistakes noticed.**

**Thank you for reading, I'm very happy if you enjoyed it, even just a little.**

**This story is confusing... Even for me.**

* * *

There was an old saying, about the forest near the river – like all old sayings, it was fraught with imagined tragedies and empty hallucinations, sentimentalities and well-worn wishes that began with a pair of lovers and ended with only one.

Most days, Arthur paid less attention to the village gossip than Francis did. He would quietly talk even as Arthur turned to his side and yawned. Sometimes Francis was a wealth of knowledge, and sometimes Arthur had no use for them at all.

Those two - Francis, and Kiku.

It was Kiku who regaled him with old tales as he mended his shirt, Kiku who waited for him even as the Sun vanished past the copse and beyond the mountain range. When Arthur ventured a little too far into the forest to hunt for the occasional fox, it was Kiku who kept his silence and pressed his lips together until all Arthur could see was a thin, red line.

"You're late again," he told the blonde quietly. The darkness in the room casted a dimmer shade to his raven hair. Arthur scoffed even as he set his tools aside.

"Gotta hunt to eat," said Arthur. Kiku sighed.

"It isn't safe out there," Francis, who was leaning against Kiku, said. "You know all sorts of creatures come out at night, and the woodcutter says -"

"The woodcutter says my ass." Arthur muttered. "Stop leaning against Kiku and go home." He didn't believe in stuff like that. The only thing he believed in was himself, after all, ever since his father vanished into the forest and his mother followed; Kiku gave him that soft look – soft, but not pity. Never pity.

The french blonde looked a bit taken aback at being kicked out from his closest companion's home – Kiku, too, threw a look of disapproval at Arthur, but the brit wasn't frazzled in the slightest.

Francis left quietly.

Kiku frowned. "You could at least let him stay till dinner -"

"Shut it."

Kiku's eyes had the briefest of surprise, before they averted gazes, hurt. Arthur immediately regretted what he had said – he held his hand reluctantly out to Kiku.

"Look, I'm -"

Kiku's stuttering cut him off. "I'll go prepare the water." he said before scampering to the kitchen.

Kiku and Arthur had rabbit for dinner. Rabbit and regret.

* * *

It was Kiku's face Arthur woke up to, in the morning.

"Mmh," said Arthur, scrunching up his face. "Morning."

"Good morning," said Kiku. He bended to press a kiss to the side of Arthur's jaw.

Arthur huffed, but smiled. "You okay?"

"Yes," said Kiku. He rested his cheek against Arthur's brow. Arthur crooked his fingers into Kiku's hair.

"I'm sorry for yesterday."

"I know," Kiku breathed near his ear.

Arthur did not know Kiku as well as he knew Francis, but it was close. When he kissed Kiku, open-mouthed and wanting, Kiku shuddered and melted into him, always so eager, so easy to please. Arthur had only known Kiku for all of three years, since the blonde brit found the unconscious boy in the river, but Arthur was confident that all the years before it is miniscule in comparison to the longer stretch of the future.

"I made rice balls for breakfast," said Kiku, when they separated.

"You're amazing," said Arthur, nuzzling into his neck.

"Not really," said the other, but he was smiling now.

They ate breakfast as they walked to the forest, Arthur hefting an axe and Kiku with a pail in hand. Kiku filled it up with water and ended up wading in the river as Arthur set to work; it took longer for Arthur to gather lumber, driven to distraction by Kiku's bare skin, his slim hips having the slight trace of burning from the Sun.

Sometimes Kiku came too close to the deeper part of the river for Arthur's liking. He waded closer to Arthur, like he knew the tiny fears that rest in Arthur's heart, and the nervousness in his stomach. He reached out to pull Arthur into the water with him, and Arthur followed obediently, kissing him in the shallows.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, touching the top of Kiku's head. The colour of his hair rippled black.

"Nothing," said Kiku. He looped his arms around Arthur's shoulders.

"You're a fish, that's what you are," said Arthur, chuckling.

Kiku smiled at him, and did not meet his eyes. "Maybe," he said, pulling away. "in another life, I suppose."

Kiku in the water – it was a lonely sight to see that made Arthur want to kiss him, again and again.

The blonde walked back to the land, instead.

* * *

There was a strange quality to Kiku that Arthur could not presume to comprehend. His appeal was in his mystery, Arthur supposed, and it appeared to work in his favor when it came to his attention. Quiet, polite Kiku Honda, was no different from the fourteen year old boy that could not articulate his wants, could not speak the local language. It was Arthur, then, who took him in – and it was still Arthur that loved him the most.

Kiku lived with his brother, in the woods. Arthur had never been to Kiku's home before, because Kiku did not like talking about his family, or about other people for that matter. When Francis brought it up a few times, Kiku looked a little distressed, a little heartbroken, and it only strengthen's Arthur's resolve to keep Kiku protected, to keep him a little longer with him in his tiny room where he could forget everything else.

Sometimes Kiku came back with bruises along his jaw, his collarbones. Arthur would feel a chill down his spine when he would inspect them. He did not know what to say to Kiku as he patched him up. Stay would only invite some sadness in Kiku's posture. Francis covered his face with his hands, as if he could not bear to look.

"You know we'd never let anything hurt you," said Arthur.

"I know," whispered Kiku, wincing as Arthur applied a healing salve on his brow.

_Do you really?_ Arthur wanted to say. He kept his silence instead, and went off to make porridge for the both of them.

Francis stayed with them, on those nights. He fell asleep on Arthur's spare bed, and Arthur would watch him drool, in his sleep, and whisper their names as if in a nightmare. Arthur felt his heart ache, just a little.

"There's some truth in those old sayings, you know," said Kiku, breaking the silence. He rested his cheek against Arthur's shoulder and closed his eyes. "There are dangerous things in the forest."

"Why do you keep going back?" Arthur said, tersely. He stiffened as Kiku's hand searched for the spaces between his fingers.

"Duty," said Kiku. "And love, perhaps."

The admission yieled a spike of jealousy that surged from Arthur's throat. He growled Kiku's name into his mouth, as replacement for the person Kiku refused to name. When Kiku touched his cheek, Arthur fell limp in his hand.

"Don't be reckless," said Arthur, defeated.

Kiku's eyes softened. "You are kind."

It was not an assurance.

* * *

Francis was gone, when Kiku and Arthur woke. By the small slant of light that approached the window, Arthur supposed it was already well into the afternoon. Arthur slipped out of Kiku's grip on his sleeve, and he exited the house to head to Francis's home.

His mother was pacing on the small plot of land Francis had a tendency to grow roses in. When he would catch sight of Arthur, he would flutter panicked fingers over his head.

"Have you seen Francis?" his mother asked. Arthur's gut twisted, and he felt his mouth dry up.

"No," said Arthur. "Did he say where he went?"

His mother looked close to tears. "He said he was going to look for more fruits in the forest, but that was a few hours ago. I don't know why, but – _Mr. Kirkland_!"

Arthur was already running, before he called out to him. He tried to remember the things Francis used to tell him – creatures in the forest, predators at night, parents that never come back, that stupid, stupid girl that never listened to her own advice. Arthur would cry if he wasn't so angry.

He went past his own home, where Kiku was most likely still asleep. The sky was already a rosy shade above him, and he bit the insides of his cheek. His footsteps were loud and heavy against the worn wood of the bridge. The calm of the river was a counterpoint to the rushing in his ears.

"Where are you?" Arthur whispered, as he stepped into the copse. "Francis!"

There was no light filtered through the tree tops, no person in sight. But Arthur thought of Francis, of Kiku who took the same tracks through the forest.

"Where are you?!" he yelled. "Answer me, asshole!"

And, without realizing it, he had already ventured deep into the forest.

* * *

By the end of the evening, Gilbert was a muddled mess, drowsy and aching even as he twisted and turned in Kiku's arms.

"It hurts," said Gilbert, grappling at his throat. Kiku touched his hand, and Gilbert flinched. Watching him, like this, was almost an exercise in closure, in justice. Gilbert's skin paled.

A knife stood at Kiku's side. He had to still his hands from reaching for the familiar press of the handle, the sharp tip of the blade. Once, hands browned from the Sun held this. Once.

Because the truth was, when Kiku first met Gilbert, he knew – the blood on Gilbert's clothes, and deeper into his skin – Francis's blood, his innocence; Arthur's, his life. How they must have felt fear in their bones, in the tenderness of their muscles. He knew, even if Gilbert did not. The river said many things; it knew too much. Too lost in the heady drunkenness of a fresh kill, uncertain of how to move forward, all within the span of hours, when time was nothing compared to forever – all these things were familiar, and yet...

Kiku did not forget, and he did not forgive so easily. Above all things, he was not human, too.

It was just so easy to forget, that was all.

"Kiku," Gilbert panted. "I'm so tired."

Truly, that demon was a fool.

Kiku pressed a hand over his brow, and let it rest at his jaw; Gilbert closed his eyes. His fever burned, despite the coolness of Kiku's touch. His heart pounded under Kiku's fingers, erratic, feeble, qualing. Demanding, please.

Kiku's first night, in Arthur's house, he had suffered from nightmares, feverish half-dreams that had heated his skin and had left his mouth parched. Arthur had watched over him, then, had wiped the sweat off his forehead, the faint tracks of tears. Without complaint, without malice.

So kind.

It would have been easy, to ignore his fitful response. But Kiku watched for a different reason – a crueler motive. His touch remained gentle, belying the thickness in his throat, the thirst for the splinter of bone.

"You're here with me," said Gilbert, through small breaths. "I'm glad."

"Hush," said Kiku, voice soothing.

"That damn fortune seller must have poisoned me," Gilbert wheezed. Kiku stared at the sweat that pooled along Gilbert's collarbone and pressed his lips together to keep from betraying himself. Gilbert closed his eyes and laughed, short, harsh. Desiccated. "Shouldn't have taken a sip, huh?"

How large was his capacity of trust? Was he that foolish? How much did he underestimate Kiku's capability?

"I could have done it," said Kiku, quietly. "What if I had?"

Gilbert turned his head, his nose nuzzling Kiku's palm. "You wouldn't," said Gilbert. "You are too young, too kind."

Too young? What did he know.

Not kind. Anything but kind. Kiku's heart hardened even as it deflated. Even this, was arrogance. Gilbert was so young, riddled with pride and blinded by an unknown quantity of man. What he measured in years, Kiku forgot in centuries.

"But if you did do it, I'm sure I'd still love you."

Kiku's small frame shook.

Gilbert breathed and kissed the lines of Kiku's palm, still adoring, worshipful. This stant, for wealth. This, for life. Children. Love. Things he would never beget, never realize, always trailing after the shadow of a man. How sad, how meaningless. Kiku crouched down, to whisper in his ear.

"Sleep," whispered Kiku. "Just sleep."

In the softness of Gilbert's parched mouth, along the cracks of his lips and his sharp teeth, he obeyed, and closed his eyes.

Forever.

Even if tears fell, Kiku's hands – they finally stopped trembling.

* * *

You could not kill a demon the way you would a human. Humans, they broke too quickly, too easily, and they struggled by instinct, they did not understand nature's cruelties, its harsh ways. Demons were hardy, slippery things that would cut a child's throat, if they couldn't help it. Death was such a foreign word, a distant shore, escapable for decades on.

But you could try. Again, and again.

Failing that, Yao's voice whispered; that tiny, destructive part of himself, the part he detested the most – there was always revenge. _Protect your own kind; keep them safe, keep them close. It is your duty, and it is your right_.

Gilbert's neck was so, so white. Kiku marveled at it as he stopped down, and bared his teeth. The quickness, of his pulse. The bitterness, of his blood. His labored breathing. Sleep, and all of its small graces. His hair, soft and white, sticking to his brow with sweat.

He had killed – but he had done it with remorse.

_A devil can eat a demon. Mark it, _Kiku thought, even as his eyes were watered with something that tasted dangerously close to regret. Gilbert's skin, his labored breathing. His ears, flat and tamed. Mark it.

All paths lead to one place. Only one, and no more.

* * *

The distance between Arthur's house and the river was approximately fifty paces – a hundred, with Kiku's aching feet, his body that hurt all over. What could the water give him now, but heartache, and regret? Like tiny birds, the dirt on the ground picked at his sole, plucked and pecked at the skin rubbed raw. It was almost a relief, to reach the edge of the river, to duck under the rickety slats of wood. Below the bridge, he could not see the trees, nor the bamboo shoots; only the water, clear and dark, deep enough that when he crossed it, there was no turning back.

There were many tales of demons and only few that ended without despair. Lies, deceit – no stranger, no recourse. Francis's cheer, his brightness. Arthur's gruff kindness, his hands that touched him only to mend. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Both of them must have had loved him. He must have had loved them, too.

Walk on.

* * *

Gilbert Beilschmidt, though -

"You came to me," said Gilbert, like he believed in it. His voice was soft but not weak. Never weak. "You came, and I loved you from the start."

Kiku's fingers stiffened against the cup. Do not tremble. Do not hesitate.

"That forest," said Gilbert, "it was only something that led you to me all the more."

Take it apart, piece by piece. Did he mean anything, when his words were merely pallatable and suited his need? All roads, they lead to one point, and only one. That point, it must have been nestled in his heart, his belly, the dissolution of matter absorbed and coursing through his body. Parts of all of them, they were lost now. Mark it. Mark it.

Kiku was sure they could have been happy, in another lifetime, in another place.

Kiku – he finally stopped crying.

* * *

Kiku breathed in the water, and exhaled.

* * *

**End**


End file.
